


Take Me To Church

by Shaderose



Series: Devil's Backbone [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Angst, F/M, Heavy Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Kings & Queens, Like borderline sexual content, M/M, Mages, Magic, Magic-Users, Making Out, Period-Typical Homophobia, Peter Parker is Pepper Potts's Biological Child, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Prince Peter Parker, Princes & Princesses, Royalty, Sorry Not Sorry, Soulmates, This is really dark and Angsty y'all, descriptive making out, kind of, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 18:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20457245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaderose/pseuds/Shaderose
Summary: 'Take me to Church.I'll worship like a dog at the shine of your lies.I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife.Offer me that deathless death.Oh Good God, let me give you my life.'--Excerpt (because I suck at summaries):"Prince Peter Parker Stark of the Iron Kingdom, born from King Anthony Edward Stark and Queen Virginia Potts Stark, brother to Princess Morgan Alexandra Stark." He takes another step forward, standing tall, firm, assertive, dominant, and Peter forces his feet to stay planted, his chin to stay up, his eyes to stay connected, even as he wants to step back, lower his head and submit. "Yes, I know who you are.""But the real question you should be asking, your highness," And there it is again, the mockery, the disrespect, the tease that shouldn't make him burn brighter than the flames illuminating the room, shouldn't make him feel hotter than the sun herself, but does anyways. "Is, do you know who you are talking to?"





	Take Me To Church

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this is all over the place, but i spent waaay too much time writing it so I'm posting it anyways!! Lol
> 
> This is an idea I've had for the past month now, and I would LOVE to write an entire story based around this world, but with college starting up, and with my other fic unfinished, I can't start a new one right now. So, have a one shot based on the world instead lololol  
But someday, someday I'll come back and write the main story to this, because I really, really fricken want to.
> 
> I tried to drop little hints about what the main story would be about, or at least a crucial aspect of it, sooo maybe see if you can figure it out? If you want to :P
> 
> Hopefully this isn't too confusing.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!! :D
> 
> Song from the Title/Summary: Take Me to Chruch by Hozier
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: There's a LOT of homophobic thoughts and internalized homophobia in this oneshot, due to how they viewed homosexuals/same sex relations back in medieval times. That's what this story is mainly about, Peter knowing he shouldn't like the man (Harley) but he does anyways, and he hates himself for it. So please, if that triggers you or upsets you, DO NOT read this fic. Be careful, be safe, be healthy. I love you all :))

He shouldn't be here, he thinks as he stands in front of the small, shack like house. It was clearly deteriorating, old and worn, the exterior brick lightened from years of sunlight, cracked from the rain and covered in mold, the forest surrounding the building seeming to have overgrown and slowly swallowed the building into its clutching grasp. There is a hole for a window, shattered glass surrounding it where the window had broken at some point over the years, and the door is an old wood, dark and scratched with use and age, also covered in foliage. The roof in perticular is ruined, the tiles coated with green and brown, mold and rust, whatever was left of it, that is. There was many holes from where tiles had broken and fallen down into the house, but _someone_ had taken the time to weave some straw and leaves, using some mud to patch the holes. It was the only sign that someone still lived in this home. If Peter hadn't seen the roof, he would've thought the place had been abandoned. It'd be better if it was.

He really shouldn't be here. Maybe if he turned around now, _he_ wouldn't notice. Maybe if he went back now, maybe his father wouldn't notice his absence, notice his disobedience, notice his transgression.

He turns on the spot, about to walk away, walk back to the castle and stay there where he is supposed to be, _where he belongs_, but right as he does, an old, dirty, dusty door creaks open, and a higher, but still decently low pitched, accented voice calls out to him, teasing, almost mocking in its amusement, "Are you just going to stand there and stare at the forest, or...?"

Peter shuts his eyes, grits his teeth, hates himself for the shot of excitement that accompanies the spike of fear in his gut, the embodiment of an oxymoron flaring inside of him, burning at his organs, his lungs. His breath halts, stutters, his heart picking up speed as he turns back around and faces the person stood brazenly in the door frame. The nightmare that lingered in all of his dreams. The plague that haunted all of his thoughts.

The object of his forbidden, ruinous affections.

_He_ was leaning against the rotting wood frame, his arms crossed over his chest, showing off his lean, but still seemingly firm biceps, wearing nothing but a light, loose fitting shirt and a pair of braccae, an outfit way too causal for a man usually adorned in an outfit of the wealthy, tunic, leggings, cape and all. An outfit way too _alluring_ to a man who shouldn't be staring at all, but was anyways. A man who _really, really_ shouldn't be here. But was anyways.

Again, the voice call out again, sharper, with a hint of annoyance even though the mirth still burns bright, still shines through. "Hello?? Am I talking to a statue? Oh, don't tell me I have to bow and call you _'your majesty'_ to deserve your attention."

Now he really is mocking Peter, mocking the lifestyle of his subjects and his way of life, and he feels himself bristle, sending a glare to the man grinning cockily, looking far too pleased with himself. "You are shameless, and imprudent."

He just shrugs, sending a smug look Peter way, a look Peter does not admire, does not flush at, does not long to see again, under different, much less appropriate situations- "Maybe. But I got what I wanted." He takes a step out of the shelter, staring up at the sky, before tsking and jutting his head towards the structure. "Come in, before it rains."

He follows the man's gaze, seeing the dark, churning clouds layering the sky, low and heavy with precipitation, and with one last glance behind him, one last prayer to the gods above to save him from his sinuous thoughts, a prayer he doesn't know if he truly believes, he seals his fate and quickly shuffles into the house after him, hearing the door creak shut behind him.

It is as small inside the house as it looks on the outside, but surprisingly, a lot more maintained and upkept. There is a tiny, rickety wooden table sat in the corner of the hut, looking more like a slab of wood on four sticks than a genuine table, but seemingly usable none the less as there are books and papers scattered on its surface, two chairs sat on either side. There are some shelves on the walls, covered with jars and tin cans, food ready to preserve for the winter, as well as some candles. Near the middle of the room sits a firepit, charred pieces of wood crackling as a fire roars, a small metal kettle hanging above it from a configured structure of pieces of metal and string. To top it all off, an unstable, uncomfortable looking bed is sat in the other corner, the sheets scattered and tossed, messy and unmade, not unusual for a man who seemed to be unwed (much to Peter's sick, twisted elation). Overall, it wasn't an awful dwelling, not the worst Peter has seen, though it definitely showed the man's status. Not wealthy, definitely not wealthy, but not a peasant. Middle class.

"Tea?" The man grabs the kettle off of the contraption, raises an eyebrow at him and Peter feels like he can't breath. Due to the upcoming storm, the overcast sky was causing the room to be covered in shadows, the only light coming from the flames which was now illuminating every angle, every corner and shape of the man's sleak face, his jawline looking sharper, cut with heavy shadows underneath, his cheekbones looking more defined, his dark, brewing, mischievous blue eyes glowing in the orange and yellow light, making his stare that much more intense as he seems to stare straight into Peter's soul, almost making him believe the stories the maids tell of homosexuals. That they are witches, the same mages that need to destroyed at all costs, that they are the devil reincarnated. As he stares back at the man, just as intensely, just as heated as the flames tickling at the man's skin, he can't help but to think that if this man is the devil than he surely belongs in hell.

"I shouldn't be here." He blurts out instead of answering him, forcing his eyes away from the enticing scene, from the definition of sin itself standing directly in front of him, deciding to stare at the flames instead, burning, alive as it crackles and flicks and flares, despite the lack of wood for it to feed on. Now that he mentions it, there is barely anything keeping the fire lit, and yet it stays, strong and alive, almost as if it came from the pits of hell itself. It wouldn't surprise Peter if it did.

He hears shuffling, light footsteps as the man walks away, towards where the shelves were hooked on the walls, and he hears the clinking of ceramic and the sound of pouring liquid before the luring melody of the siren rings out again, calm, teasing. "Oh? Why shouldn't you be?"

He feels himself blush, feels the heat rise to his cheeks, but he lifts his chin proudly, squares his shoulders, sets his jaw, reconnects their eyes, even as it causes his heart to stutter, sharing into those piercing, calculating eyes, the man standing by the shelving with a cup in his hand. _"Show no weakness,"_ his father had taught him a while ago as one of the first rules given to him in training, _"no matter who you are with and what you are doing. In battle, or out. A king must never look weak in the eye of his subjects."_

"For many reasons." He keeps his voice calm, steady, strong, even as it begs to quiver. "A king shouldn't stray from his kingdom, for one-"

"But you are not a king." The man interupts abruptly, tilting his head and quirking a brow. "You are a prince, are you not?"

"I am a _future_ king," Peter reminds, presses, feeling irritation spark at his blatant lack of manners. But he refuses to let it get to him, refuses to let his man get under his skin so easily. "So the rule still applies. There is also the fact that I shouldn't be talking to my subjects unless stated otherwise-"

"Not one of your subjects. Out of your kingdom, remember?" The man's grin is feral, blinding as he takes a gulp of his tea, his throat bobbing as he swallows and licking his lips afterwards.

Peter averts his eyes, ignoring the lick of heat pooling in his gut and pushing through, trying to seem unconcerned, unbothered as he refuses to respond to the interuption. "-And nevermind how I should have guards surrounding me at all moments, in case of an attempt on my life, or of how I should be in my room, studying, or on the grounds, training, practicing, should be talking to mother, helping sister, or-"

Is- is he _l__aughing?_ He is, the bastard! The soft chuckles fill the room, low, breathy but real, rumbling from deep in the man's chest, clasping his mug close as the laugher shakes his whole body, his eyes closing for a second before reopening and sending a brash look his way.

"Do you realize how idiotic you sound?"

Peter huffs, allowing his irritation to overcome him as he puffs out his chest subconciously, defensively, sending a heated glare to the man, his voice booming as he declares, "Do you have any idea who you are talking to?"

"Ah, yes." He places his mug onto the rickety table, having it tilt slightly under the weight of the ceramic, and takes a step towards Peter, head tilted, eyes focused, intense, looking almost predatory, a natural aura of confident combating against Peter's forced one. And, as Peter shivers under his stare, his breath catching in his throat and his heart beating like a horse riding a knight into battle, it seems the man's aura is winning. He knows it too, his feral grin returning, showing his teeth.

"Prince Peter Parker Stark of the Iron Kingdom, born from King Anthony Edward Stark and Queen Virginia Potts Stark, brother to Princess Morgan Alexandra Stark." He takes another step forward, standing tall, firm, assertive, dominant, and Peter forces his feet to stay planted, his chin to stay up, his eyes to stay connected, even as he wants to step back, lower his head and _submit_. "Yes, I know who you are."

He takes another step forward, and is now breaching Peter's personal space, clothed chests almost touching and noses almost rubbing in their proximity, warm breath brushing against his lips each time that the man's exhales, and Peter feels _weak_, so weak and so wrong, this is _wrong_, but he refuses to show it, refuses to let this demon, this trickster, this tempter (because that's what he was, The Tempter, the Devil Himself, he had to be), win this silly game he is playing. "But the real question you should be asking, _your highness_," And there it is again, the mockery, the disrespect, the _tease_ that shouldn't make him burn brighter than the flames illuminating the room, shouldn't make him feel hotter than the sun herself, but does anyways. "Is, do you know who _you_ are talking to?"

Peter swallows again, roughly, trying to school his expression, trying to suppress his emotions, his awful, vile arousal, and ignoring his embarassment at the fact that the man is _right_. Peter doesn't know who he is, barely knowing the stories he's heard through the grapevine of the man that wanders past the border, and he feels his insides tighten with shame at the fact that he followed a stranger's invitation into their house, not knowing anything about them or their intentions, just based off of a feeling, a pull. Maybe he is idiotic.

But he doesn't share that. Can't share any of that, can't look weak in front of this man. So, he pushes through again, voice shakier than he would have liked. "If you know who I am, then maybe you should show me some respect."

The man's grin widens at his lack of an answer, but his eyes narrow, intensify, and Peter could have sworn that they _glowed_ for a second, a harsh, neon blue alight with a fire, a heat that sends Peter reeling, breathless, longing, _god he wants_, but it's gone before Peter can blink. "Another question then, sir," He leans closer then, their noses touching, breath mixing, lips almost brushing, almost rubbing against each other as he murmurs low, "If you shouldn't be here, than why did you come?"

He doesn't hear the question, not really, his mind all over the place but definitely elsewhere as he feels himself shake, feels himself _want_ with all of his being as he practically tastes this man he's been so magnetized to, so drawn to since he first laid eyes on him at that damned celebration, and he feels his resolve crumbling, piece by piece, brick by brick much like the very dwelling they are stood in, until he just can't take it anymore, and leans forward, filling the infinitesimal gap between them, letting out a light gasp as he feels his lips burn, tingling with a pressured heat as the man doesnt even hesitate, pushing, pressing back against him with a hunger almost parallel to Peter's own. He feels the lips part, teeth nipping at his bottom lip, causing him to softly whine at the shot of pain that feels electric through his overwhelming pleasure, and then a tongue is coaxing his lips apart, and Peter finally, _finally_ feels himself let go, give in, submitting to this man and letting him do as he pleases. Peter tilts his head as their tongues dance, the mans tongue roaming and searching around his mouth, mapping each nook and cranny as if he found a new land, a new world to explore, and he feels himself getting pressed backwards, back, back until hes against the frame of the house, body encased in the other man's heat, surrounded by him, their chests together, Peter's head framed by the man's arms, his hands grabbing and pulling at Peter's hair, one of his legs slotting between Peters own. Their arousals brush against each other in the process, causing a delicious, sinful friction that has Peter swallowing the other man's low moan, almost growl, the noise echoing over and over in his head and he wants more, more, _more_.

He feels his hands grasping at the back of the man's loose shirt, tugging and pulling as they finally pull their lips apart to breathe, his lung aching, burning, cooling instantly as Peter pants, gasping in rich, fresh air as the man moves his lips down, down, down, kissing his cheek, his jaw, under his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. One of Peter's hands roams up his back, feeling each knot and bone of the man's spine as he reaches up, interlocking his fingers with the man's shaggy, unruly blond locks, tugging slightly as the man kisses a sensitive spot, the crook between his neck and collarbone, making Peter suck in a shaky breath and buck involuntarily against the mans hip. The man moans again, louder this time, the sound vibrating against his neck as he begins to suck, nip and lick at the area, making Peter whine and whimper, foreign, unfamiliar feelings sparking through his body, making him unsure, nervous, but the anxiousness washes away as soon as it came, the man biting down hard and Peter crying out and bucking again, gasping for the precious, precious air that keeps escaping his lungs. Peter's never felt like this before, never felt this heat, this longing, this _lust_ for someone, and God strike him down, but he wants more. These feelings, this closeness alone is amazing, but he cant help but to imagine what it would be like if they were closer, closer, as close together as they could be, held together in a way only they could see, only they could feel, until nothing else mattered. Oh God, that would be incredible, remarkable, _perfect-_

And so, so _wrong. _What is wrong with him?!? This is _wrong!_

His realization strikes just as the man (a _man_, he is doing this with a _man_) ruts back against him, making them both moan as another sick, twisted bout of pleasure runs through him, his body shuttering with its intensity. He immediately grabs the mans shoulders and pushes him off of him at full force, sending him across the room but he seems to catch himself against the opposite wall, Peter only having caught a glimpse of the moment before he turned his head away from the beast, the Witch, Wizard, whatever he was, trying to catch his breath as the full reality of their situation, of what they had done crashes into him like the oceans waves he saw once as a kid, tumbling, crashing, roaring under his skin.

"You- you _Mage!_ What have you done?!?" He feels his body shaking, the harsh cold winter of regret and disgust curl in his gut, freezing his insides and making his eyes burn, his vision blur. "What did you do to me?!?"

"You felt it too." He hears the man murmur as a responce, his voice no long strong, cunning, witty, but instead breathless, shaky, awed. "The pull, the longing, you _feel_ it too-"

"I feel _nothing!_" He roars back, almost spitting at the implication of the man's words, knowing it's not true, it _couldn't _be true.

"Then why did you kiss me?" He sneers, and Peter can hear the floorboards groan as the man shifts, pushing off of the wall he was leaning against for support, but Peter _refuses_ to look back in his direction, refuses to acknowledge the _siren_ who lured him into his trap, and made him do his bidding. He had to have, he had to have controled him, had to have made him do this. Peter couldn't have wanted this, he couldn't have. Peter hears footsteps, the man approaching again, his voice strengthening again, laced with an urgency, a warning. "Then why did you come? I bet if any one of your other subjects were to invite you to their home you wouldn't have come, would have deemed it too dangerous, too much risk, not enough reward, so why would you come here?" He's halfway across the room now, and Peter places a hand on the hilt of his knife sheathed in his belt, at the ready just in case this man comes too close, or decides to attack. "I know you've heard of the tales. Two souls binded together, tethered to each other in life and in death-"

"Enough-"

"So that they will always meet again, no matter where they are, no matter the time, no matter the length of travel, pulled together by an invisible string until they are at each others side, and only then will they feel like home. I know you know they exist, your mother and father are examples, you know this exists, you know what _this_ is-"

"_ENOUGH!_" He lashes out, grabbing his knife out of the sheath and pressing it to the man's neck in a matter of seconds, blinking the tears out of his eyes, lips drawn up in a snarl. He swears that he sees the man's eyes flash again, that same, unnatural neon blue for a second, before his eyes return to their deeper, sea blue, wide and almost frightened, pleading. Peter grits his teeth, feeling a deep ache at the sight but ignores it, just like he ignores how his hand is shaking, causing the knife to bouncing on the man's neck. "That is an old wise tale mothers tell to their children to help them sleep, _nothing _more. You are a tempter, a _demon_ meant to try and lure me into hell, and your- your _tricks _won't work on me anymore!"

The man's swallows, but he maintains eyes contact, his eyes hard and blazing, as he keeps his head up, chin up, and mutters harshly, "And you are in _denial._ You wanted it as much as I did and you know it-" He coughs as Peter presses the knife further into his neck, trickles of blood trailing down the length and pooling by his collarbone.

"I wanted _no such thing!_" He growls out shakily, ignoring the pang of pain in his heart at the sight of blood, ignoring the worsening tremor of his hand, ignoring the tears now falling down his face. "You are a lying, manipulating _witch,_" A silent sob breaks his words, but he shakes his head, trying to stay strong and composed (_don't show weakness, don't show weakness_), and continuing with a semi steadier but still broken voice. "And you will let me go_, now,_ before I push this knife into your throat."

The man takes a deep breath, and raises his hands in a surrender, a mercy, taking a step away from Peter and the knife. "Okay. I'm not trying to hurt you, your majesty." Theres no malice in his words this time, no teasing, no mockery. He's being completely earnest, eyes serious, but _caring,_ and Peter's insides twist and churn because of it, feeling some semblance of _guilt_ and that sinful, ruinous longing making him feel sick, nauseous, his stomach in knots.

He holds the knife up for a few moments longer as they stare at each other, the man calm and collected, but pleading, begging for _something_ from Peter, something Peter cannot, won't give, and Peter shaking like a leaf, breaking down slowly but surely, feeling his sins crawling over his back, wrapping around his neck like a noose and choking him in their grip, before dropping it down to his side, sobbing silently again. He needs to get out of here, get away from his man, away from his heinous crimes, away from his thoughts and feelings, away from it all. He goes to open the door, to run away and never, ever come back, but right as he grabs the knob of the door, a soft voice fills the air, the only other sound outside of the flickering flame and Peters shaky breaths in the room.

"Harley." The man now sounds as broken as Peter feels, and it causes Peter to hesitate, feeling a surge of protectiveness he shouldn't feel, a want to turn around and hold him close, protect him from all harm. He ignores the urge, just standing frozen in the doorway as the man continues, sniffling slightly. "My name is Harley Keener."

Peter feels a multitude of emotions at the knowledge presented to him. It's just a name, simple, but it's the weight of the situation and the show of trust this man is putting into him that makes his emotion spiral. But he does nothing with it. Doesn't nothing about it. He can't. Instead, he opens the creaking, old, dirty, dusty door, and walks out quickly, intending to get as far away from here as physically possible, the pouring rain mixing with his salty tears and soaking him to the bone, as if the sky is trying to clean him of his sins with holy water.

He didn't turn back, even as he felt his crystal blue gaze searing into him all the back to the castle, ignoring the pull in his chest trying to tug him back into the man, into _Harley Keener's_ arms. He ignores it all, gripping the slippery, rough edges of the bricks of the castle and climbing up to his room, to his window, and climbing in, shutting the wooden blinds behind him and locking them, ensuring that nobody could get in behind him. Ensuring that he could not get back out.

Peter bangs his head against the now covered window, shivering from the ice cold precipitation that drenched him. He feels sick, and dirty, and so, so wrong. Why had he gone? He could have ignored it, could have ignored the pull, the yearning, the tug of the string. He could have been _good_. But now... Now, what was he?

Because as much as he wishes it weren't true, Harley had been right. Peter _had _wanted it as much as Harley had. Peter had wanted all of it. The feeling of his lips on his own, the feeling of their bodies pressed together, of their heat shared, combined, intertwined together, he had wanted it all. He _still_ wants it all. He yearns to go back to the house at the edge of the forest, to hold the man in his arms and to never, ever let him go again. Does that make _him_ the devil? Does that make _him_ sick, and twisted, and _wrong_?

Another sob breaks out of his mouth, this one audible, the sound cutting through the eery silence of his room like a newly made sword, and he slides down the wall, almost collapsing onto the floor in his own puddle of excess water dripping off of him, mostly from the rain, but partially from his tears. He _is_ sick, isn't he? He wasn't lured, or enchanted by Harley, wasn't forced into what he had done. He did it willingly, longingly, and that make him the scum of the earth. Made him worth less than even the lowest of presents, the worst of thieves.

What if Father finds out, about his traitorous feelings? Or Mother? What would happen then?

He already knows what would happen. They would banish him, sentence him to death without question for his acts, say he was a beast, a _mage_, a human no longer. Anything for the kingdom. Anything to protect their subjects. Even if it meant offing their own son, the only hier to the throne. They would be better off without a sinning son, an unworthy king after all.

He curls further into himself, his wails echoing throughout the loud, almost empty room. He is sure some of the servants could hear him, hear his weakness, but he doesn't care. Not anymore. He was a sinner, a demon, a _monster._

God, what has he done?


End file.
